Rejected Offer
1755 Words
The boardroom emptied in waves of expensive cologne and murmured conversations. Men in sharp suits and women with polished nails disappeared behind glass doors, their laughter echoing faintly as they moved on to late lunches and power deals.
Zayn Specter stayed seated until the last of them had gone. His jaw was clenched, his shoulders stiff, every muscle wound tight from hours of endless debate. Numbers, mergers, forecasts—it had all blurred into a dull drone long ago.
Finally, he pushed back his chair and strode toward his office.
Samson, his Head of Security, was waiting, as always. Silent, steady, a presence that filled the room without needing to move. The man was built like a wall—square jaw, cropped hair, the kind of posture that screamed military. His eyes tracked Zayn’s every move as he entered.
Zayn dropped into his leather chair, leaning back with a long breath. The tension at the base of his neck clawed down to his shoulders.
What he wanted—what he needed—was a scalding shower and a few hours of oblivion. Sleep, silence, anything to strip away the pressure clawing at him.
But this luxury would have to wait.
Because in Samson’s hand was a file. A slim, unremarkable file that instantly killed every trace of fatigue.
Zayn’s eyes locked on it. His voice, low and edged, broke the silence.
“You got results?”
“Yes, Mr. Specter,” Samson replied, stepping forward. He handed the file over with the solemnity of a man carrying a weapon.
Zayn sat straighter. His chest tightened as he pulled the cover open, his thumb brushing the crisp paper.
The first page stopped him cold.
A photograph.
A face.
A pair of wide, stormy gray eyes staring directly into the camera. Eyes framed with lashes so long they shadowed her cheeks. High cheekbones that gave her beauty an almost regal sharpness. A bright, careless smile that tugged at something in him he didn’t want to name. Dark hair spilled past her shoulders, glossy and soft.
Zayn’s breath stilled. His jaw hardened.
She was beautiful. Undeniably.
His lips twisted into something between a sneer and a bitter smile.
Of course. His father had good taste.
But the thought left a sour film in his mouth. He forced himself to drop his gaze to the text beneath the photo.
Name. Age. Occupation. Details that meant nothing and everything.
Lana Pearson.
He skimmed quickly, scanning the neat summaries Samson’s team had compiled. The words blurred together into cold bullet points, a life reduced to lines on a page.
By the time he shut the file, his fingers itched to slam it against the desk.
“What about their last meetings?” His voice was quiet, but it carried the weight of steel.
Samson shifted his stance, discomfort flickering in his usually impassive eyes. He cleared his throat. “Ms. Pearson and Mr. Specter were last seen together at La Bodega, the five-star restaurant inside the airport. That was… three days ago.”
Zayn leaned back in his chair, his gaze drilling into the photograph still burned into his mind.
La Bodega. His father parading her in public!
His chest tightened again, a cocktail of anger and something darker twisting inside.
For a long moment, silence reigned. The hum of the city outside barely touched the air-conditioned stillness of his office.
Then Zayn drew in a slow, steady breath. His decision came like the snap of a blade.
“Cut her a check. Two hundred and fifty thousand.” His tone was cold, absolute. “Draw up an NDA. Make her sign it. Make her disappear from my father’s life. NOW!”
Samson’s eyes flickered briefly, then he nodded once. “Yes, Mr. Specter.”
Zayn didn’t move. He didn’t look away from the photo. Her smile. Those eyes. The curve of her lips that looked as though they had secrets tucked inside them.
Beautiful. Dangerous.
And soon to be gone.
--
The door clicked shut behind Samson, leaving Zayn alone in the quiet hum of his office.
For a moment, he didn’t move. His eyes drifted back to the folder lying on his desk. Against his better judgment, his fingers reached for it once more.
Her picture stared back at him.
Lana Pearson.
Those gray eyes seemed to follow him, even in stillness. The delicate lashes, the careless smile, the elegant sharpness of her cheekbones. A face both angelic and dangerous. A face that, if Samson’s report was true, had already begun to weave itself into his father’s life.
Zayn’s jaw locked as his chest tightened.
His father.
Alex Specter had never been that man. Never. For all his power, for all his influence, Alex had always been one thing above everything else: loyal. To his wife. To his family. To them.
Zayn remembered it as clearly as yesterday—the late nights when his father would come home from the office, exhausted but still ready to play chess with him, or listen to his daughter, Tana, chatter endlessly about her newest art project. He remembered the way his father spoiled their mother, Andreea, with flowers for no reason, with weekend trips, with the kind of love that had made Zayn believe—at least once—that forever was real.
So what the hell had happened now?
Zayn’s throat burned as his thoughts turned darker. His mother… Andreea Specter… she didn’t deserve this. The betrayal, the humiliation—it would destroy her. And their family with it.
No. He would never allow that.
Lana Pearson—this flimsy flame, this opportunist—would not be the match that burned his family to ash.
He straightened in his chair, his expression hardening like granite. If his father had lost his judgment, then Zayn would be the one to fix it. That had always been his role. The fixer. The problem-solver.
It was who he had been since taking over Specter Industries.
He was thirty now, and the years had carved him into something sharper, harder than most men his age. Ruthless. Powerful. A man whose name carried weight, whose reputation preceded him like a shadow. Feared in boardrooms, respected in backroom deals.
And if cutting Lana Pearson out of their lives meant being ruthless again, then so be it.
With an irritated snap, Zayn slammed the file shut. The photograph disappeared beneath the cover, but it didn’t leave his mind. Not completely.
He yanked open a drawer and shoved the folder inside, his movements sharp with anger. Out of sight, out of mind. Or so he told himself.
Pushing back from his desk, he rose to his feet and turned toward the wall of glass behind him.
The city stretched out before him in gleaming steel and glass, the skyline glittering like a crown. From up here, in the tower he ruled from, Zayn Specter could see everything. Control everything.
And yet, somewhere out there, a woman with storm-gray eyes had managed to slip through the cracks and threaten the one thing that mattered most: his family.
His reflection stared back faintly from the glass—dark, brooding, unyielding.
He swore quietly to himself.
Lana Pearson had no idea what storm she had just walked into.
--
The next day dragged like chains across Zayn’s shoulders.
He sat at the long polished table in the conference room, a dozen voices bouncing numbers and strategies around him. Slides glowed on the screen at the far end. Charts, forecasts, graphs.
He barely heard any of it.
His eyes flicked again to the heavy gold watch on his wrist. Samson should have checked in by now. The silence was gnawing at him, clawing at the edge of his patience.
This wasn’t like a deal gone wrong or a contract delayed—this was personal. Sensitive. And no matter how many years he had commanded rooms like this, Zayn couldn’t silence the coil of tension in his chest.
When his phone finally buzzed across the table, he didn’t hesitate. One look at the caller ID and his irritation sharpened.
Samson.
“Excuse me,” Zayn said curtly to the board, rising from his chair. He strode out without waiting for acknowledgment, the sound of his expensive shoes echoing down the hall.
Once alone, he swiped the screen and brought the phone to his ear. His voice was clipped, cold.
“Tell me.”
There was a pause. Then Samson’s voice, lower than usual. “Mr. Specter… unfortunately, the things did not go as planned.”
Zayn stopped mid-stride. His jaw tightened. “What do you mean? She wants more?”
Another pause. This one heavier.
“No, sir,” Samson admitted, his tone uncomfortable. “She refused the offer. Completely. Called me… well, every name in the book, actually.”
For a second, Zayn was silent. Utterly still.
The words slid through his veins like ice.
Refused?
Finally, he forced his voice steady, though his teeth clenched around every syllable. “Step by step. Tell me how the meeting went.”
Samson inhaled. Then he began. “I approached Ms. Pearson as instructed. I presented the check and the non-disclosure agreement. Politely, as agreed. She listened… then laughed. She said she had no idea what I was talking about. Denied any involvement with Mr. Specter. Called the offer insulting. Then she—” he hesitated, clearing his throat, “—she rejected me. Brutally. Loud enough that others noticed. And before leaving in a rage, when I continued to insist, she… she made sure to call me several things I’d rather not repeat.”
Zayn closed his eyes briefly, pinching the bridge of his nose. His temples throbbed. A storm brewed beneath his skin, black and volatile.
“Sir” he said at last, his voice low. “How do you want me to proceed?”
The question hung between them, loaded.
Zayn’s eyes opened again, cold as steel. His reflection in the hallway window looked darker than the skyline behind it.
Zayn spoke between his teeth, each word laced with tension.
“I will handle Ms. Pearson. Personally.”
And with that, he ended the call.
The city lights gleamed faintly in the distance, but all Zayn could see was a pair of gray eyes and a smile that had already caused far too much damage.
If Lana Pearson thought she could toy with his father, with his family, and walk away… she was about to learn exactly who she was dealing with.
- Writer
